


Sous le Réverbère

by Cog



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, OH YEAH THEYRE ALSO IN COLLEGE, french au maybe, hiccup is from like idk, i legit ddont remember any of this lol, i wrote this a year ago i dont remember any of it, jack is american, late night coffee shop cigar bar??, studying abroad, uh hiccups not out i think, weird slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cog/pseuds/Cog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting lost was never part of the plan, but maybe he could be unpredictable for once. Getting coffee with a stranger is unpredictable, right? So make that twice. But being unpredictable more than once? That was also unpredictable. Shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sous le Réverbère

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first fic on here! I wrote this around a year ago and never got around to finish it... like most of my fics. I really liked the au though and stuff so here it is! In all its unfinished glory! If you really wanna see how it ends, I might continue it. Depends on the reception I guess. Enjoy!

It was early in the month of January, the fourth day of the year, between New Years and Three King’s day, the tenth day of Christmas, and abysmally cold in the streets of Paris. Wet and dirty slushed city snow lined the streets as shiny black automobiles steadily trudged onward, with a mild flurry of heaven’s powder cascading over the city as purely as talcum on the bottom of an infant. Due to the proximity of the equinox, the sky was dull and obscure and starless- as it often is in the winter of a city. This was amended by the candles perched in streetlamps, providing light in being granted the safety of iron above them. 

The numerical value of the time was 21:00, and the year, which was built on the multiplications of the intervals that created the hour value, was 1933, according to a Gregorian calendar. The premise of “time” was overrated, unless contextualized to define humanity. Position and social were developed branches of the brain that were pertinent in the thinking process of all mammalian species, yet humans were the only ones with the perception of time.

Or at least, that was a theory in his physics book.

Hamish “Hiccup” H. Haddock had only known of time and existence for the past seventeen years, though in all technicalities his birthday had only passed him four times as it was on leap day. At the precise height of 1.62 meters and a scale weight of 48kg, his scrawny stature was defined by numbers as well, and as he trotted down the sprinkled cobblestone in some well-to-do residential boulevard, he found his mind to be reviewing the stacks of numbers that filled the pages of the publication tucked under his arm.

His academic major had influenced him to believe that nothing was a coincidence and that everything was logical, by the same methods of a machine, he began to fantasize over each and every number that built him up- bones, cells, atoms. Or the number of joules that fueled him, or maybe in the most philosophical sense- the number of consciousness that joined together to build Freud’s singular id of the identity “Hiccup”.

An artist or a transcendentalist would describe Hiccup as “warm”, “lithe”, “single-minded”, and “beautiful”. His brown and auburn strands curved around his head and jutted out like the silhouette of a vase, his brow thick and shaped, eyes green like spring in the countryside. And his most iconic trait, the variety of freckles that adorned skin all over, could be compared in individuality to the veins of each blooming flower that spring would bring. That is, when January and winter’s harshness subsided.

Hiccup’s pretty little brain had a tendency to linger on philosophy and things that didn’t need to matter to him. And in the time it took for him to calculate the boulevard’s flower arrangements into a symmetry of numbers, it finally came to his attention that he was very much lost. He’d overestimated his knowledge of the city after spending a week and a half there; moreover it was dark- furthering the difficulty of returning to his accommodations.

Under his breathe, with a thinly British accent, he began to mumble a series of curses and verbally retrace his navigational errors, free arm moving wildly as he tried to reason with himself.

“Okay, Hiccup, it’s now,” he raised his wrist to evaluate the hour once more, “twenty-three hundred and you’re lost in an unfamiliar city with nobody else in sight. You’ve really done yourself in this time.” Hiccup’s pretty little brain also had the tendency to scold himself. “Also, it appears to be snowing,” he noted.

As he continued down the street which began to seem endless, an apparition under a street lamp moved idly in the distance and it became clear that a man lean against it with a smoke. The green eyed man accelerated and he approached the stranger, with the intentions of receiving directions, and conceiving a French script with which he could communicate his dilemma.

Under the streetlamp, a young man with startlingly white hair dragged on a cigarette. His face seemed empty and neutral, something Hiccup had come to associate with the French, and though he was nervous of disturbing the smoker, he cut the hesitation and spoke quickly, immediately catching the tall and unfamiliar man’s attention; “Pardone moi de vuos deranger, meis je suis une etudiante et j’etuide dans l’exterieure isi et sail sambile je suis perdu. Pouvez vous me dirigir a l’rue d’seine?”

The other man raised his eyebrows and shook the ash from his cigarette for a moment before raising it to his lips once more and answering, “Je ne parlepar l’france,” he pointed to himself and slowly said, “American.”

“Well alright, I am more comfortable with English anyway,” Hiccup smiled politely and rephrased his question, “Do you- by any chance- know how to get to the Rue D’Seine from here?”

The brunette’s answer was received with a shaking of the head.

“Unfortunately, no. I’ve just arrived here to spend a semester and I feel about as lost as you.”

Hiccup fiddled with his hands nervously, admiring the cinematic qualities of an American accent. The deep and crisp nature of it felt rich, and he marveled the ease of the other man’s movements as he continued on his cigarette.

Unfamiliar blue eyes met childish and temporal green ones for the first time, and a smile spread across the white haired man’s face;

“The only directions I can really give to you are to a wonderful cigarette bar. But I’m unfamiliar with street names so it would be a matter of walking you there. I’m sure someone may be able to direct us from there, though.”

Hiccup succumbed to this, being that the illuminated bits of the man’s face were attractive, and that he was unable to formulate an alternative.

“Great, name’s Jack, by the way. I’m from Yale.”

“Hiccup, from Oxford.”

They shook hands politely and trotted down the street with the same cold politeness.

“Hiccup? I’ve never heard such a name before. Are you an honest Britt?”

“In truth, I’m from the Danish-Norwegian Union. It just so happens that I attend Oxford, though.”

A curt nod.

“I’m a Philadelphia man myself, and- let me tell you- Connecticut’s like a whole other country for me.”

“How so?” He questioned politely- like everything else, prim and proper, clean and nice. Politeness. Manners created by social constructs hold such deception. Numbers always stay clean and nice, prim and proper.

“Eh, it has none of the great big city charm that I- you know- materialized in.”

More conversation and words to decorate time as they treaded through the light Parisian snow to a somewhat isolated city-street, lacking the faint glow of the lamps left behind. What now illuminated the path was a foggy sort of light- something that felt heavy to breathe in. However, the soothing ease of familiarity began to overtake Hiccup more as the mundane chatter persisted.

“It feels like maybe I’ve talked too much about myself,” said Jack in a moderately embarrassed tone, “Tell me, Hic, about Oxford. What do you study?”

Hiccup furrowed his brows for a moment with parted lips as he contemplated inquiring about the abrupt nickname but decided against it, answering: “Physics- with a focus on engineering,” contemplative eyes towards the ground and nodding as though he was unsure of himself.

“You must be numerically inclined,” Jack interjected before the easily-predicted pause began.

A shrug was the retort, continued by an ‘Eh’.

“Aces!* I mean, our majors share an infinite amount of similarities, if you really think about it.” Heavy emphasis slapped the B in ‘about’.

This notion was certainly perplexing, as Jack had earlier mentioned he was studying mythology a few minutes prior. Before catching himself, Hiccup sputtered out “How so?” in an unintentionally skeptical tone.

A beam grin revealed itself, “Ha! You Abercrombie!*” The eye roll was so tremendous that it was present despite unseen, as the American’s visual focus lie in the falling snow. “For one, we both learn indisputable facts. I mean, you can’t deny Rome’s affection for Jupiter or, as pertains to your culture, deities such as ‘Jokul Frosti’- whom I conveniently share a name with. That is- I mean, when translated.”

“Oh, you seem to really know yo- Oh!” The Viking-descendant sent a bemused look to the American, “Just what kind of ‘cigarette bar’ are you taking me to?”

Jack held a hand to his chest in shock, comedic ally overreacting to the implied accusation of the other, “A keen* one! And I’m no grifter*, mind you. It wounds me, Mr. Haddock. Your skepticism, I mean.”

“Right, so we’re not going to a speakeasy*?”

“Not unless you want to, but you hardly seem the type.” The unsettling laugh that followed placed Jack’s sobriety in question but it was only one among many that had just now arose. Before any of such could be asked, the shorter adolescent decided this to be a challenge.

“What? With all this sheer Viking-ness? A speakeasy should tremble at the thought of a ruffian like me entering its clandestine doors.”

While the white-haired man enriched the response with thorough detail- about how overwhelmed the bar tender would be to discover such a horrifying scrub* as an oxford student daring to taint his locale- or something, Hiccup decided to dissect the other’s previous few remarks. He quickly determined the following possibilities about his strange companion:

1\. If he’d chosen the false name “Jack Frost”, it was with the explicit awareness of Hiccup’s Norse background (He could be getting targeted- the placement of the smoker was convenient seeing that absolutely nobody else was on the street with him…). Otherwise, why would he have mentioned the cultural fondness of such a persona?  
2\. Or, if he were simple minded, it could be just because of the snow that he chose to title himself after the iconic winter spirit.  
3\. Both options implied he was falsified- but why?  
4\. Definitely a conman!  
5\. Wait, then why is he so set on taking Hiccup to this cigarette bar?

It had been a bad decision to pursue this escapade with an absolute stranger. For someone so calculated, he felt betrayed by this risk. Before he could continue compiling doubts, the pair arrived at their destination.  
It was on a skinny side avenue which only bikes and pedestrians could scale. Small windowed and simple vined townhouses lined this street, which also happened to be dramatically darker as there were, unlike other streets, no streetlights. They stood before a white and large-bricked home, with a dark green door and a consuming full window filling any wall beside it. This window provided the only source of light on this skinny avenue. Iron hinges held in place a still sign protruding to read, “Fumées de Sable”. 

Figures moved beyond the window and tobacco wafted in the air. Though conman was still a possiblity, Hiccup decided that the majority of other secondary fears were removed. Jack looked at him in search of a reaction. The auburnette coughed sheepishly as if to avoid the embarrassment of apologizing for his earlier skepticism.

Jack quickly mounted the four steps to the door and pulled it open for Hiccup, silently ushering him in. The auburnette quickly followed and gave a curt nod of gratitude to Jack as he entered the cigarette bar.

They huddled about through a light sheen of smoke, and between squints Hiccup could make out the faintest lines of square molding along the ceiling which he presumed to be far more detailed than it seemed. Contrasting the whiteness of the walls and smog, men in adorned in dark tans occupied the space. The middle-ground of color between them were the furnishings, dim wooden dining sets and a long oak bar against the wall. Other notable features of this locale were some foreign objects such as a gold-painted screen and an obscure modernist chandelier. 

Green hues became rounder as the Norwegian’s eyes widened, in curious admiration of his surroundings. Jack smiled and gloated at him,

“I know the owner.”

“Well, this certainly isn’t what I expected,” Hiccup bobbed his head in time with a wave of his hands.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing, Hic?” The American inquired as he slipped his hand around the other’s waist and escorted him to a table near the back.

“No, no. I mean, it’s definitely a good thing. But, honestly, I expected more muscular men. Oh, and for this to be an alley. My scenario ended with you being disappointed that I didn’t bring more money with me.”

“Charming,” a dark brow kissed a tuft of white in an unimpressed expression. The duo took their seats and Jack began an anecdote regarding the status of cigarette bars in the United States.

Eventually, a short and very fat man with a round, pleasant face came to their table and offered to remove their jackets. His flaxen hair curled with gel reflected the dull light similarly to the beads of sweat rolling down his pink-hued cheeks. In spite of this, his smile was large and genuine.

“Hi sprout, what’s growing?” Jack bemused as he handed over his coat. “Hic-y, I wanna introduce you to this nobby* fellow, Sandy. He’s the owner of this fine establishment.”

The two strangers exchanged a polite hand-shake.

“Sandy, c’est Hiccup, un ‘pip’- comme un di ten Amerique,” Jack continued with a mediocre accent and some nodding.

The two strangers exchanged polite smiles.

“Two coffees with a shot of rum, if you please. And two King Edwards, please. No, scratch that, give us some thick eastern cigars.” Jack requested before turning to Hiccup, grinning, “You’ve never had coffee, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> *Aces= Very good  
> *Abercrombie= Know-it-all  
> *Keen= Good  
> *Grifter= Conman  
> *Speakeasy= Bar disguised as something else  
> *Scrub= Poor college student  
> *Nobby=Good


End file.
